


This is Your Universe

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Rape/Non-con Elements, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frankenstein's monster only ever made one request of his creator: to give him a wife. A wife he named Molly. She named him Sherlock in return. But what is love to a monster born from obsession? (Frankenstein AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Agreement Between Lord and Master.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt sent to me on Tumblr by icequeenforlife, who requested Frankenstein!Sherlolly.

Rain lashed at his feet, but it felt like nothing more than a cool breeze against his haggard limbs. For more than a year, he had been a wanderer around the world, forced blinking into the sunlight by the man who dared to call himself his creator. Was he not a man? With every look, every insult, every assault he endured, that had been the question which haunted him. If man did indeed create himself in his own image, then surely he was nothing but a reflection, destined to disappear at the whim of his master. No more; he would be master of his own fate from this day forward.

He would run no longer. No—from this day, he would be at peace. From this day, his reflection would be his own. He would be once again… pure.

* * *

He found the man—his  _creator—_ in a shack, tucked away from the harsh storm beneath the cliffs. A fire was burning brightly in the grate, but the room still felt cold. The tools and trinkets with which his master had created him were laid out on the workshop table. A smile flicked across his lips as his fingers played and stroked at the implements which had brought him life.

From behind, he heard a sound; one he'd grown used to. The sound of a pistol being cocked. He wasted no time. Spinning around on his heel, he knocked the gun out of his master's hands and grabbed at his master's throat. His master struggled, but he only let out a short laugh, pinning him against the wall.

"You have corrupted me, Frankenstein," he hissed. "My mind works faster than any man's."

It was true. Over and over, day after day, his brain clicked and whirred with new and fresh thoughts, never stopping and never dying for eternity.

Victor dared to laugh. "You are a monster. You cannot have thoughts."

"There's a surgical knife to your right, within range. You've eyed it twice before now, when you believed I wasn't looking. You plan to goad me, and make me attack you again in order for you to secretly gain access to the knife before you reach up and slice across my jugular. But now you've used this moment of my speaking to pick up the knife anyway." He gripped Victor's shirt tighter and pulled him closer. "Drop it."

The knife fell to the floor with a clatter. His master was almost pale with shock. It was laughable.

"What do you want of me?"

"You have defied nature by creating me. Defy her again. Make me a mate. A companion, to fill this empty life."

For a long time, his master considered him and his request. "I shall not. Monsters such as you deserve to be destroyed; not  _loved._ "

He growled and threw his master to the ground, crouching over him. How dare his master presume to consider him lower than himself? He was a man. He  _was_. Did not any man deserve—nay  _need_ —love? Companionship? In his travels, he had acquired the skills to read, to speak, to write, to think and to learn but love… that was a knowledge he had yet to absorb; an experience he had yet to endure. He knew the reason why. No ordinary woman would love him. He needed another mind, a superior mind like his, one that could connect and meld with his thoughts.

Slowly and deliberately, his fingers slid around the slimy sweaty neck of Victor Frankenstein. "My master," he said. "You once believed me to deserve life; you could at least recompense me with this task."

His master choked under the force of his grip. He tightened it.

"I will cause no more destruction, Frankenstein. Agree to my demands, and my bride and I shall live away from this place in peace. We will not seek you out; it will be as if we have never spoken. Now… do you agree?"

"Yes," Victor forced out. He smiled, and his grip gradually loosened.

He smiled as lightning flashed through the window of the shack once again. "I will give you three months. Do not fail."


	2. A Meeting of Two Minds.

His mind raced, but time did not. The three months continued to crawl past, no matter how much he would will them to move faster. It was a small source of comfort for him, as he watched his master create again through the grimy windows of that same workshop he himself had been born in, to know what lay just beyond the end of those long months. At last, he would feel what had eluded him for his time on this godforsaken earth. Warmth, love, and most of all, companionship.

If anyone asked him why he desired a companion so, he would not—could not—give them an answer. Not a definitive one. All he knew was that when he saw those other men, in their homes with wives who smiled when their men looked at them, and children who laughed when in the arms of the woman who had birthed them, he felt a pain. A deep yet hollow pain that echoed, unendingly, inside his chest.

The only cure was to love.

* * *

He waited until midnight of the 28th day of the fourth week of the third month. As soon as the village clock’s chimes echoed through the dark, he wasted no time and threw open the door to his master’s workshop.

Three months had affected Victor Frankenstein. His eyes were gleaming, but his skin was sallow, his frame weak. Clearly, he had neither eaten nor slept, his mind fixated on the one thing his creature had demanded from him. He stepped forward towards his creator, eyes dark.

“My bride. Where is she?”

On hearing him speak, Victor’s head snapped up. There was a glimmer of manic fear in his eyes, but it flicked away when his gaze moved back to the sheet-covered body that lay on his worktable.

“Here,” was all that Victor managed to say. Ignoring his creator’s self-absorbed awe, he moved forward towards the table, with his gaze locked on the covered body all the while. From what he could see, the body was small in shape, without any obvious curves—a vivid contrast to his own towering stature. His fingers delicately traced the hem of the white sheet that covered her.

“Let me see her,” he said quietly, but there was no reply. He looked straight to Victor, and he cracked a smile.

“Don’t try to refuse. You’re practically begging for someone to see her.  _So_   _show me_.”

He watched as slowly, and with a short but melancholy sigh, Victor pulled back the sheet to reveal her. Smile widening, he gazed at her naked form. She was indeed a petite creature, with small hips and breasts. Her hair, the shade of honey brown, was long and curled around her shoulder, matted into tight tangles and knots and her pale, pale skin… It bore the same scars as his, but they were lighter, less obvious.

Where he was an experiment, she was a masterpiece.

Carefully, he raised his hand and reached towards her face. He had to touch her; see if she was truly real—if this wasn’t merely his mind trapping him inside an all too sweet dream. He barely had to touch the surface before her eyelids snapped open, revealing two deep pools of brown, warm and inviting. A jagged gasp shot from her throat as she took her first breath and her hand shot out, only to grasp at the rough cloth of his shirt.

“Who…” she croaked, her body flinching with life. Cries of pain poured from her. He glared towards Victor.

“Leave!”

His creator—their creator—made no attempt to obey, lips wide in a smile that betrayed the ecstasy he felt. The sight stirred him into movement. Lips curled into a snarl, he advanced on his creator, her cries of pain pounding in his eyes. Victor’s laughter was high and cold; a mark of the insanity that clouded him.

His mind however, was not so clouded. He clenched at the scruff of Victor’s neck and pulled him away from her, throwing him to the ground as if he were nothing more than a dog.

“Leave, Frankenstein, LEAVE! There is nothing for you here!  _GO!_ ” When his creator still made no attempt to obey his commands, he pulled him to his feet and together, they moved towards the door of the shack; where Victor stumbled, he walked. Wrenching open the door, he threw Victor into the dark and the rain and shoved the door closed.

There was a moment of silence as he turned back to face his bride. Her pain had ceased for now, but her body was now curled into a tight ball and her fingers were buried in her hair as she rocked back and forth, tears coming hard and fast from the warm pools that made up her eyes. He moved towards her.

“Bride…” he said, voice faltering. Her head snapped up, and for the first time, he saw the fear in her eyes. It dimmed a little as she focused on him.

“Who…” she repeated, voice strangled. Slowly, he stepped towards her, waiting for her to speak again. Eventually, her heavy breathing slowed.

“Who am I?” she said softly as she continued to rock back and forth.

“We—we are one and the same,” he said, moving closer still. She made no sound, gave no indication that she found him harmful in any way. She only frowned, confused by his words. He felt himself smile. “As you are me… I am you.”

His hand gently palmed at her naked stomach. The calmness she had once displayed left her, and in its place came fear. Giving out another strangled cry, she scrambled away from him, curling her legs underneath her chin. Her entire body shook as the thunder of the storm rolled overhead. All that came from her lips was a single question.

“Who… am I? Who… am I?”

For the first time in his life, he felt helpless. He had never had to care for another like him; he had only ever been made to fend for himself. During those three long months, he had hoped and longed for his bride. But he hadn’t dared hope for something like this; something—someone—so fragile, or who needed him so much.

His body worked faster than his thoughts. Seeing her shivering and naked body, he removed his shirt. Her eyes focused on him again; on his scars. And as he cautiously crept towards her, her eyes widened until only a thin line of brown surrounded her swollen pupils. Dilation.

She eyed the weather-beaten shirt with curiosity, but didn’t take it.

“It will… it will make you warm,” he explained, hesitant even in his words. After a moment however, and with her eyes locked on his, she reached out a hand and took the shirt from him.

Was this love, he wondered as he watched the fabric slip over her nude body. Was this need to protect and cherish her really what he hoped for all these months? If it was, he found that he didn’t necessarily mind. He only wished he could make her happy.

The storm had abated now, and the soft orange glow of sunrise peeked over the horizon. A boyish grin crossed his face. She must see a sunrise. She had to.

“Come, come!” he said quickly to her, grabbing her hand. “You must see!”

Her eyes narrowed. She was still suspicious of him. Yet she made no attempt to pull away from him; instead, she stepped off the table and followed him as he steered the both of them towards the window. The boyish grin widened as she crouched down beside him. He pointed eagerly to the rising sun.

A gasp of surprise escaped her and she lifted her head slightly, peeking out through the window at the fierce orange sky. But whereas she was fixated on the sky, he was fixated on her. He noticed everything; saw every little detail about her. He saw how her tangled curls floated down to the small of her back in waves; how her fingertips, pressed tightly against the window’s edge, turned white; how her eyes seemed to shine with the sunlight; and how her mouth twisted into an entranced smile as she continued to watch the sunrise.

When he touched at her again, she did not cry out. Nor did she flinch. His smile widened a little more as he gently caressed her back. Finally, she turned her gaze away from the sun. He saw now that there were tears in her eyes. Happy ones.

“Do you love me?”

She swallowed slightly before she answered; the words were still foreign to her newborn tongue. “I love you as I love the sun.”

Her voice was nothing more a soft melody, fragile in its resonance. And as he heard her speak, his smile changed from that of a boy to a gentler, tenderer smile of a man and he stroked at her cheek.

“Then you will be my companion,” he said, and taking hold of her hand, he pressed it to his chest whilst his own hand moved to press over hers. A light laugh left her as they felt one another’s heartbeats. He himself, with her heartbeat beating underneath the palm of his hand, began to feel the warmth that he had so longed for.

Here, with her, was where he belonged. He knew that now. 

And it was a knowledge that would never leave him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait for an update! Just too many projects to keep up with it seems. Hopefully - stress on the hopefully - the next update shouldn't take so long.


	3. A Lesson is Taught.

They made their way to a place familiar to him and strange to her. It was a mill, formerly the home of a kindly old man. His sight had been failing, but that did not mean he was disadvantaged. His ailment seemed to aid him somehow—it allowed him to see past that what society would so easily spurn. He had seen past him; past the fear and the hatred and the loneliness to tap into something a little more… human. If he wanted to keep her safe, this would be the place.

She was fearful of it when they first went inside. The chill affected her, and any slight noise made caused her to flinch. He held her closer, feeling her radiate warmth from underneath the thin shirt he had given to her.

Still holding her, he carefully led her upstairs to the old bedchamber. There, they found clothes strewn about, discarded in panic. He bade her sit on the bed as he gathered together what he could from the pile. He could feel her watch him with that same awed, wide-eyed expression.

“You—have been here before,” were the first words she said. He nodded as he took her by the arm and helped her to her feet. She took the dress he held in his hands and wriggled out of the thin shirt. The dress he had found was a simple labourer’s one, made of cotton. Her movements were clumsy as she dressed and she glanced at him, helpless.

“Help me?”

He answered her request with a smile, stepping around to her back. Deftly, he scooped her hair together and wound it around her shoulder, his fingers ghosting against the paleness of her neck. She smiled at him, the expression warm and welcoming. Before he could speak, she took a hold of his hand and softly kissed at his palm, her lips soft against his flesh. Returning her smile, he closed the gap between them and dipped his head to press his lips against her neck.

“Why… why have you been here before?” she asked her voice a whisper against him and the dark.

He stepped back, continuing to button the dress. “An old man used to live here. He took me in. He taught me to read, how to look at the stars. He loved science and philosophy too; we often talked about them.”

Hearing this, she nodded, slowly biting on her bottom lip. “What made them leave?”

“The others, in the village. They heard the family harboured a monster—a demon, they claimed—and stormed the cottage. I escaped.”

“Did they?”

“They abandoned me here as I slept, in an attempt to let the villagers kill me. The old man wished to stay, but they took him as well.”

She was silent for a moment as she considered his words. When he finished dressing her and smoothed his hands against her shoulders, she spoke.

“I don’t think you are a monster.” He allowed himself a smile, but her lips dropped into a curious frown.

“What’s… reading?”

He slipped his hand into hers and smiled wider at her, tugging her gently towards the door. “Follow me.”

* * *

He led her down the stairs and into the library, a small place with a large chair and a fireplace. He left her to explore the room as he made up the fire.

“What are these?” she asked breathlessly, as she wandered around the room, her fingers dancing along the shelves.

“Books,” he said and he rose to his feet and turned to face her.

“The old man taught you how to read them.”

He nodded. “Would you like me to teach you?”

She said nothing, but smiled in lieu of verbal consent. He moved forward and reached over her, taking a series of books from the shelves. She watched with her brown eyes wide as he stepped back towards the fireplace and settled in front of it. When he glanced towards her and gently beckoned, her excitement grew into a wide smile and she quickly moved towards him and duly sat down beside him, curling her arms around his waist and snuggling against his shoulder. Carefully, he opened the book in his hands and he held it out towards her. A frown embedded itself into her features.

“Read,” he said softly, but her frown remained. Gently, he reached forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be here.”

With shaking hands, she took the book and glanced down at it. He watched as she silently absorbed in the letters in front of her, willing them to become words.

“Of… Mans… Fir—first…” She paused, and shook her head.

Holding her tighter to him with one hand, he nuzzled at her cheek and pointed to the word that had given her such confusion.

“Disobedience,” he said. Ever so slowly, she repeated the word, the elongated syllables rolling uncomfortably in her tongue.

“Dis-o-bee-di-ence…”

“Disobedience,” he pressed. She nodded and stared at the page once more.

“Disobedience,” she said finally, breathless in her elation. She continued. “And the Fruit of That For…”

“Bidden.”

“Bidden tree, whose mor-tal… tast—”

“Brought.”

“Br-ought Death into the world and all our woe.”

Still she continued to read. Although she was hesitant and slow in speech, the sweet melody of her voice led him deep inside his thoughts. He hadn’t dared before now, but now he wondered. Was _this_ love? Or was it a different love? Was it love that made him, as he listened to her, not think of himself as a solitary creature hounded by hatred but instead what he had always yearned to be: human?

Her reading gradually lulled him into a deep sleep. When she saw her mate so steadily resting with the light of the fireplace dancing against his features, she smiled. He was peaceful in this state, and although she was yet to fully work out the puzzle that made up a human life, she knew. In that moment, as she saw him lie back on the floor and watched his chest slowly rise and fall with the pace of his heart, she knew what she had been given. She had not only been given life, but love too. It was with that thought that she closed her book, laid her head on his chest and followed him into the darkness of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who have commented on/left kudos/bookmarked this fic. Once again, apologies for the delays in updating. It's been a multitude of things, but I finally sat down today and wrote the rest of this out this morning. It's one chapter less than I planned, but at least there will be regular updates from now on. For now though, enjoy the chapter!


	4. The Second Lesson. [TW]

_**TW:** Rape, Mentions of Rape, Sexual Assault._

For the next few months, they came across a peace others might have sought but never found. They spent their days in the library, reading aloud to one another. They gave each other names. She willed him to name her Molly; he requested she call him Sherlock. He was gentle and affectionate with her, and she returned these affections with grace and humility not often seen in others. When he hunted, seeking out and killing food for them to eat, she welcomed him with a smile and the lightest of kisses.

Yet the peace was wrong. He found himself growing discontent. Her attentions were focused on the wrong things. Where she had clung to him so tightly and breathed whispers of love in his ear, she had to be sought. He would find her, day after day, hidden away in the library, piles of books by her side as her eyes hungrily drank the information and the knowledge that could be found within those pages of parchment and dried, faded ink. She began to slip away from him. Any affections he gave her were now received with a slight smile and little else. The gifts of food he gave her were received with sweetness, but not delight. Not the delight he wished for. He was cold now; without her warmth, he was solitary.

* * *

The fire was lit, and she was laid across the floor of the library, her skirts pooled around her as she slowly and happily flipped through the pages of another book. From his place in front of her, he sat and watched. Why did this upset him so? She was happy—did he not wish her to be happy? Did he not wish for her to love him? And if she was happy, then surely she loved him. So why did he feel such… hatred? That only burned for his creator—not her. Never her.

“These books are all written by men,” she muttered, and she looked to him with a quizzical expression and a tilt of the head. “Could a woman do this? Think and talk of such things like science and philosophy?”

“I believe they can,” he said tightly. “If they did their duty to their mates.”

Her features fell into confusion, and after a moment, dismay. “Have I made you angry?”

It almost made him want to laugh. Even when she was slipping away from him, she saw every facet of him. An enviable skill. He shook his head. “I fear… I fear you do not love me.”

“I do love you,” she said softly, her fingers looping against the curls of her hair nervously. “Husband… I love you like I love the sun.”

“The sun sets,” he said quietly.

At this, she lowered her head. For a while, there was only the echo of silence. “What can I do?”

“Love me. Love me for real.”

Her brow furrowed, her gaze following as he leaned forwards onto his knees and moved closer towards her. “Husband, Sherlock, I—I don’t understand.”

Her breath caught as he traced the tips of his fingers against the exposed skin of her collarbone and down towards the top of her breast. “Let me help you. I will show you.”

“If you so wish,” she said hesitantly. He smiled and reached up to cup at her neck. Leaning forward and feeling the heat from the fireplace, he tenderly pressed his lips to hers as he had done so many times before. He felt her smile underneath his mouth. His hand fell towards her breast again, caressing the flesh underneath his palm. A moan escaped her. Sighing into her mouth, he deepened the embrace, pressing his lips closer to hers.

Pain shot through his mouth and he felt himself being pushed back. Dazed, he touched at his bottom lip. The red of blood dripped onto his fingers. She had bit him. Why? He looked to her.  She was on her knees now, eyes wide with fear of the unknown and her hands clasped at her chest. Quickly, she shook her head. Her arm reached forward and closed around her open book.

A rage he thought he had forgotten boiled inside of him. He rose to his feet, taking gradual steps towards her. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths; her eyes were almost black with unwilled wanting. His rage moved him; it controlled him. Silently, he grabbed at the book and ripped it in two halves. He took a hold of her wrist and threw her to the floor. She tried to move, tried to hurry away from the monster she no longer recognised, but his strength was too much. He deliberately collapsed to his knees and took another, tighter, hold of her waist. Tugging her back towards him, he blocked out the sounds of her crying protests and pressed his weight onto her tiny, vulnerable body; her sobs were muffled by his urgent, demanding kiss.

“I will show you,” he said, voice little more than a growl as he tipped his forehead against hers. “ _This_ is real love.”

* * *

Her screams fell into trembling cries, and his rage evolved into regret. She seemed smaller now, curled up in the middle of the place she had once thought safe. He had ruined that. Her dress, ripped and damaged beyond repair, fell around her. Tears, unending, streaked down her cheeks, staining her skin. The fire crackled as he sat against the wall, his hands in his hair. The silence dominated them. Her arm tentatively reached out. For one maddened moment, he believed she was reaching out to him. The way her fingers clasped around the edges of her destroyed book said a different story.

“Is this…” She did not look at him. “Is this what you wanted?”

His voice was flat; hollow. “It was not.” Her tears began again, breathless and quick.

“I did see… I did see love on my travels.” He did not know his motive to speak, but it was there and the words would flow, no matter what. “They did not scream like you. They weren’t afraid. They… they laughed. They liked one another.”

There was no reply—just silence—and she curled her body tighter against herself. Her tears continued to spill from her lips.

Eventually, he found the strength to move. She flinched as she listened to him stand and she froze as he approached her. She did not move at all, not even when he carefully covered her with the blankets from the chair she had so often curled up in. He departed without a word. His thoughts, his actions plagued him.

_This is what real love is._ Words spoken in anger, and actions had followed that reviled him. He pulled himself up the stairs. Regret stabbed and lodged deep inside of his core; and as he stepped inside the bedroom, he knew it would not leave him. It would never leave him. This night would never leave him.

Frankenstein had made an angel; he, _creature_ that he was, had caused her to fall. Perhaps then, he was a demon. He buried his head in his hands, and felt wetness. Drawing his hands from his face, he lightly touched at his cheeks again. Tears. They streamed from him.

Now he saw—he was no demon. No. For what he had done was something only the worst kind of monsters did; he was human. For to be human—he saw this now—was to corrupt oneself and others around you.

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

He jumped to his feet. She was screaming for him. Why was she screaming for him? He shook his head and ran out of the door. Whatever it was, he would not waste time.

* * *

He ran down the steps. Screams and yells grew louder and louder. The thump against the front door vibrated. He took one glance out of the window. His heart almost shattered. The mob. Lead by his creator, bound at the wrists, they had the front of the mill surrounded. The thump against the door rang again, punctuated by her panicked, fearful sobs. He turned. By the bottom of the stairs, there she was, curled into a ball with her hands clamped around her ears.

He crouched in front of her, calling the name she had given herself, but the yells of the mob drowned him. She screamed again when his hand clamped around her arm. He leaned close to her ear.

“Run, my Molly. _Run._ Just tell me I am forgiven.”

Her mouth dropped open in hesitation. Her fear of him was clear to see.

_BANG._ The front door fell from its hinges. Thundering footsteps echoed as the mob filled the house. Dragging her towards the back door, he shook her by the shoulders.

“Am I forgiven?!”

Her expression was unreadable. She did not answer. The coolness of the night air whipped against him as she wrenched open the back door and fled into the dark.

She was gone. That thought was the only thought that drove him. It was the thought that fuelled him; fuelled his rage against the mob that approached him. Men dived at him, all trying to capture and kill him. He fought them off, beating them and besting them but it did not help. Their bloodlust seemed to rise with every defeat they were burdened with. A crowd of men advanced on him. He glanced up. Attached to a hook on the ceiling was an oil lamp, freshly burning. He grinned. Perfect. Jumping up, he grabbed the lamp from its hook and held it aloft. His bound creator stared at him, a mixture of wonder and terror in his eyes. When he spoke, he looked straight to him.

“This… This is your universe, Frankenstein.”

With that, he smashed the oil lamp to the floor. Flames burst from it, licking at the wooden floors and towards the mob. Letting out a high, cold laugh, he ran from the burning mill and into the dark.

* * *

The mud of the earth splashed at her feet, and the cold of the winter made her breath haggard. Still she continued to run. Where, she did not know. Terror, heartbreak and grief belaboured her progress, yet she pressed on, heart heavy. She wished she had never been created; she wished she hadn’t loved; she wished she had understood. She wished a million things and nothing.

She came to a stop behind a large tree, her skirts heavy with wet earth and leaves. Sinking downwards, she took hold of the ripped material and pulled. The sound reverberated through the cool night air, but she continued to pull at the ruined hem of her skirts until she was free of it.

“Molly!” His voice made her stop. The crushing of leaves sounded as he rushed through the dense undergrowth, searching for her. “Molly! Forgive me! _Molly!_ ”

She wanted to forgive him—of course she did. She loved him, and was that not love? Yet she could not forgive a man she feared. He wasn’t a man anymore anyway; he was a monster, with scars and a hatred that burned within him that she could not calm. She loved him—oh did she love him—but forgiveness, she saw now, was entirely different from that. Quietening her breaths, she leaned against the bark of the tree and listened.

She did not move. She made no sound. The rustle of undergrowth sounded again, followed by silence. For a long time, she stayed where she was, listening out for anything; any clue, any giveaway. Her chest tightened when she heard the slight crackle of bark behind her. His voice sounded again, quieter this time.

“I will find you,” he said, making a vow. His voice cracked. An admittance of defeat; for a moment at least. She carefully rose to her feet as he continued to speak. “I will find you… I promise.”

She did not know what amount of time had passed when she finally stepped away from the tree and risked a glance into the undergrowth. All she saw there was the darkness of the trees. Free of the weight of her skirts, she turned and began to run once more.


	5. The Lost Wanderer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. Major, major thanks to everyone who has bookmarked, left kudos and commented on this fic.

_Winter, 2013._

He never stayed in one place for too long. In the span of two centuries, he traversed the world, immersing himself in cultures unknown by man. With his scars carefully hidden away, he listened, he learned; he adapted—but he was never truly human. This however, was a choice made by himself. After having had a taste of what it was to be human, he preferred to stay away. If people thought him to be eccentric or a freak as a consequence, so be it.

His latest place had been London. It was a charming city, but it wasn’t nearly charming enough to make him stay. (Though no city or country ever really was.) His allotted time was up; after a little over six months of living and working in 221b Baker Street, he was preparing to leave.

It was early morning when he arrived at London St. Pancras Station. Barely anyone was there—only a few bleary-eyed travellers, drunks who begun the painful process of sobering up and the cleaning staff had decided to grace the station with their presence. Carrying his well-worn travel bag on his shoulder, he stood in the centre of the station, passport in hand as he read through the various departure times on the board. He had been to rural France once before in his life, and had enjoyed the quiet of it. Although he did not plan to stay there long (rural locations always held a greater risk of discovery), it would be a contrast to the business of London.

“The Eurostar train from London to Auvergne is ready for departure.”

With a sigh, he made to walk towards the platform. Behind him, a new person had arrived in the quiet of the station. He glanced behind him momentarily. Petite, and dressed in a loose-fitting hooded top, they walked quickly through the entrance, their fingers holding the hood low over their face. On their shoulders, they carried a large bag of luggage; the leather it was made from was battered and old, splitting at the seams and hurriedly sewn together. He continued to walk down the platform, not failing to notice the fact that the new arrival was hurriedly following on behind him towards the platform. He narrowed his eyes and looked closer.

Those fingers, that clutched at the very edge of the hood. He recognised them. The figure gave a soft sigh and lifted their other hand, reaching around to the back of their neck. A flurry of long, honey-brown hair followed, trailing down past their neck in waves. He stopped, spinning around his heels. Without waiting to ask but barely able to contain the spark of hope within him, he reached forward and grabbed the hood to push it back.

Two brown pools stared at him, eyes wide and pupils almost black. Dilation.

“Molly?” he said, his voice barely audible. She did not hesitate. Turning from him, she sprinted away. Immediately, he gave chase.

" _Molly!_ " That only seemed to spur her on. Her hair flew out behind her as she continued to speed away from him. Still locked in the chase, they ran outside. She dived across a road, but he followed. A passing taxi driver bellowed at him to look where he was going, but he ignored them, only focused on her. The last time he had run after her, he had lost her. He wouldn’t do so again.

It was when she turned into an alleyway that he got her. Catching her by the waist, he pulled her close and pressed his hand against her mouth.

“Calm,” he said into her ear with an elated smile. “Calm yourself. I would never harm my companion.”

She quietened. For a while, all they could hear were their heavy breaths, mingling against and with one another. With a light sigh, he slowly turned her around to face him. He broke into a relieved smile. Two centuries had not passed. She was the same as ever she was; small, petite and beautiful. He stepped forward and his hands sunk into the folds of her hair and with his lips, he caressed her neck and her jaw.

“Tell me,” he murmured between kisses. “Please. Tell me where you have been.”

“I travelled the world,” she said softly. “Always running.”

He let out a breathy laugh and pressed his forehead to hers. “As have I. So many lost chances, over so many centuries… so many times, I’ve looked for you…”

She sighed into his mouth as she kissed him. “I know.”

A bucket of ice cold water had been poured over him. There it was. The truth; the one he had never admitted to himself. He stared at her, searching her expression for some shred of hope. He did not find it. Such an endeavour only served as confirmation of what he feared.

Her touch burned him now, leaving marks. She cupped his face with one hand, her thumb stroking against his cheek. Her eyes shone with a knowing sense of sympathy. She reached up and kissed him deeply, her breath cool against him.

“Goodbye my love,” she whispered. _Do not seek me_ , he heard. _Do not find me._

Still with that sweet smile on her face, she ran from the alleyway. He stayed in the dark, his palms scratching against brick. Her silent demands thudded in his mind.

So that was the truth. Where he had been running from society, she had been running from _him._ He was the monster he sought to protect her from. His own actions, he realised, had cost him this.

The one thing he had ever desired from his creator, and he himself had been the one to destroy it.


End file.
